Runaround
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: When a new lieutenant joins the Port Royale forces, Gillette suddenly finds himself outcast and seeking help from none other than Jack Sparrow. Can Norrington save him before it's too late?
1. First Impressions

A response to a plotbunny, suggested by Angharad, on the Norrington Defense League boards. You see, at the NDL, our job is to defend Norrington and Gillette (and occasionally Swann) from fanfictional villainization. So, in a brilliant scheme by Wren, one of my sisters in commodore-defense, we have created our own two Honorary Canonicals, a commodore-lieutenant duo that's actually evil, so the idiot Mary Sue authors who bastardize Norrington and Gillette for no reason will have a decoy duo to pick on. These Honorary Canonicals are Commodore Matthew Bennett and Lieutenant Jean-Jacques Moncrieff. They are played by Colin Firth and Rupert Everett respectively. Moncrieff is a nasty little bastard, and Bennett is just...well, he's Colin Firth. 'Nuff said. Standard disclaimers apply--I own Bennett and Moncrieff, though I stole their last names from Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde, but sadly, I do not own Colin and Rupert. *sighs*  
  
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Norrington was unaware of the eyes watching him from the corner. Dark eyes, gazing upon him over the rim of a wineglass with a dangerous, calculating expression. Yes, *this* was a commodore worthy of note. Straight-backed and gallant, conversing politely with insipid socialite women about the weather, the holiday, his bachelorhood--oh, that was fortunate. Bachelorhood. Or perhaps not quite so fortunate; it was always more sport to seduce married men.   
  
The commodore's first officer hovered by his side, smirking behind his hand as Lady Evremonde-Manette caught at the commodore's arm as he attempted to escape and asked him what he thought of the lovely Christmas tree for the fifth time in as many minutes.   
  
The observer in the corner stood, stretching his legs languidly, and sauntered over to join the conversation. "Madame. If you'll pardon me, I must request an audience with the commodore to speak of military matters." A surefire way to get rid of a woman, he thought, and he was quite right, as she lifted her hoopskirts and left with her nose in the air.  
  
"That was rather rude," said Norrington, and then, glancing furtively around, "Thank you."  
  
"Not a problem, Commodore." Norrington's savior extended a beringed hand. "Lieutenant Moncrieff, at your service."  
  
"Ah, yes." Norrington shook Moncrieff's hand politely. "The new Second Lieutenant of the Dauntless, is it? You'll be working directly under Gillette here."  
  
"A pleasure to meet him as well, I'm sure." Moncrieff's gaze never left Norrington's for a second, and he shook the commodore's hand slightly longer than was necessary. Gillette drew in a sharp, indignant breath through clenched teeth, and Norrington let go of Moncrieff's hand abruptly, narrowing his eyes.  
  
"Perhaps I should introduce you to him, as well," he said coldly. "He happens to be standing directly behind me."  
  
Gillette did not extend his hand, and inclined his head irritably towards his new subordinate. "Gillette, First Lieutenant of the HMS Dauntless. I would advise you not to forget it."  
  
"And I would advise you to loosen your collar a bit," said Moncrieff smoothly. "Figuratively speaking, of course. It would be dreadful if we all got off on the wrong foot, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Oh, simply catastrophic," Gillette sneered. Norrington shot him a warning look.  
  
"The way things are around here, Lieutenant," he said, "it's best to be less inflammatory. Watch what you say next time you're introduced to your superior."  
  
Moncrieff glanced patronizingly down his pointed nose at the seething young lieutenant. "I will."  
  
He sauntered off, and his last thought on the matter that night, not without some degree of satisfaction, was that he was at least three inches taller than Lieutenant Gillette.  
  
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*giggle* That's true, too. I looked them both up. Rupert Everett is 6' 4", and Damian O'Hare (squee!) is 6' 1". I'm going to stop being fangirlish now and do my history homework like a good little AP student. *procrastinates* 


	2. Reflections

Moncrieff is being terribly bitchy and not doing anything I want him to. He's turning into bloody Hugh Grant, and I hate that. He's Rupert Everett, dammit! Moncrieff is Rupert Everett! On the other hand, I'm writing later chapters as well, jumping around a bit, and Bennett is being lovely and Firth-y and doing just as I tell him to. At least *one* of the Honoraries shows proper respect for his authoress. *harrumphs* Anyway, enjoy.   
  
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Gillette huddled on one side of the bed, jerking the covers up over his chest with a furious exhalation. Norrington sighed sympathetically and slipped into bed beside him, gently stroking his lover's bare, tense shoulder. "Don't mind him, Renault. You know you're a better man than he is."  
  
"I suppose." Gillette, sulking, curled into a ball. "I didn't like the way he was looking at you."  
  
"Oh, is that what you're upset about?" Norrington raised an eyebrow. "I assure you, Renault, there is really no danger of my running off with Lieutenant Moncrieff, if that's what's been bothering you."   
  
Gillette snorted with bitter laughter and turned to face him. "I should hope not. I daresay I'm a better catch than him--that man acts like he's compensating for something."  
  
Norrington's lips quirked upwards. "And you deduced this from thirty seconds of conversation with him."  
  
"I'm trying to make myself feel better," Gillette mumbled into the pillow. "Let me insult him in peace."  
  
"I say there's no need to stoop to his level. Be the bigger man, Renault."  
  
"I assure you," said Gillette sardonically, "I probably am."  
  
Norrington sighed. "You're incorrigible," he said. Gillette snuggled up in his arms.  
  
"I'm insulted, is what I am."  
  
"The man is, admittedly, an arrogant prick. He is also your fellow officer, and it won't do to alienate him right from the start."  
  
"As opposed to alienating him later?" Gillette nestled more comfortably into Norrington's embrace. Norrington laughed softly in spite of himself; deep, rich, sensual laughter vibrating between them, and Gillette, overcome, threw a possessive arm across his lover's chest and held him close.   
  
"If Moncrieff so much as looks cross-eyed at you," he murmured, "so help me, I'll run him through. You're mine, and no one else's." He raised his eyes briefly, anxiously to Norrington's, as if asking permission to claim him as such--he'd never been so bold about it before.   
  
Norrington exhaled softly and kissed Gillette's forehead. "I won't argue with that."  
  
Gillette smiled against his lover's bare shoulder, and fell asleep.  
  
*****  
  
Moncrieff reclined on the sofa, twirling the stem of a wineglass idly between his long fingers. He'd not been in the Caribbean a week yet, and already he'd begun to smell the makings of a scandal. Moncrieff was in his element.   
  
His thoughts shifted to Commodore Norrington and his overprotective young lieutenant. There was an odd dynamic between them--Norrington seemed almost as defensive of his lieutenant as Gillette was of him...as if he owed Gillette for more than just his loyalty; as if their relationship were more than strictly professional.  
  
Unbidden, Bennett came to mind, and he smiled wryly. Good old Bennett. The man was an invaluable ally when it came to bailing one out of scrapes and tight spots. It was thanks to Bennett, after all, that Moncrieff was in Jamaica at the moment, away from all that nasty business with the Marquis and the incriminating letters, and posted in a spot most convenient for savoring all the delectable Naval eye candy.  
  
Most notably, James Norrington. A slow smile twisted Moncrieff's lips at the memory of him. It had been a long time since he'd had a bedmate as fine as the dashing young commodore. He'd have to work on him a bit, but then, where was the fun if there was no challenge? And besides, in the end, nobody ever refused Jean-Jacques Moncrieff.  
  
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Simply enormous panties! *sigh* Moncrieff, don't you dare go all Daniel Cleaver on me. This is not "Bridget Jones' Diary." Even if Colin Firth is in it.  
  
Ave atque vale,  
  
--Jehan's Muse 


	3. A Letter

Because Auggie writes Bennett so much better than I do, and because I was getting jealous. :) Technically, she wrote him before I did. I couldn't have that, now, could I? Hence, Bennetty goodness. (Mmm, Colin Firth in uniform. *drool*)  
  
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Commodore Matthew J. Bennett was a man whose outward stiffness belied the dank rottenness within. And if one were to say that to his face, he would respond with a brisk, clipped "Nonsense, don't be so melodramatic," turn on his heel, walk away and brood over it for the next few days.   
  
Moncrieff had not written him yet. To be fair, he'd only been gone four months, and had he sat down and written a letter the moment he stepped onto the docks of Port Royale and mailed it immediately, it would still take the letter at least another month to reach England, under favorable conditions. But he had a feeling Moncrieff had not bothered to write a letter at all, and his mood darkened considerably. Of course Moncrieff would have better things to do than write to him; he'd ensured that his young protege would be sent to a place where his decadence and peculiar tastes could be indulged and overlooked. Moncrieff was most likely sitting on a beach, drinking rum, eating mangoes and admiring the redcoats' arses as they passed by.   
  
For a fleeting moment, he thought hypothetically of joining his former lieutenant in Jamaica. Perhaps the romantic Caribbean air would afford him the confidence to discuss matters of love and lust with the one person whom he'd never been confident around. Bennett could handle anyone from the King downward--not that he'd ever met the King, but he didn't imagine it would be a problem if he ever did--with a stiff upper lip and a sharp tongue, but Moncrieff had a way of tying his tongue in knots, and Bennett wondered if perhaps it wasn't all for the best that the seductive Frenchman was gone.   
  
Temptation was a dangerous thing, if one didn't have one's wits sharpened at all times, and Moncrieff had an unpleasant habit of making Bennett feel tipsy with his very presence. No, Moncrieff was dangerous. Bennett didn't trust himself around him, and he didn't like not being able to trust people. And he found that he enjoyed the pleasures of his position just a bit too much to risk losing it for a bit of pleasure with Moncrieff.  
  
Still--it wouldn't hurt to know just how he was doing, would it? What things were like in the Caribbean. Though if he wanted an accurate account, Moncrieff was hardly the person to ask.  
  
He pulled a crisp sheet of parchment from his desk, sharpening a quill with brisk, hawklike movements, and addressed the letter aloud. "To the esteemed Commodore James Norrington, with my compliments..."  
  
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Moncrieff had discovered the joys of baiting Gillette. It was always great fun to see the man's perpetual sneer deepen to the point where he was all but baring his teeth and growling like a wolf, and he was the worthiest opponent Moncrieff had found yet when it came to battles of wits.  
  
Gillette stood at the helm, hands behind his back, wearing, for once, an expression of such serene calm that Moncrieff thought it would almost be a shame to disturb him. "Let it never be said that Jean-Jacques Moncrieff turned down a good opportunity," he murmured, and threw an arm about his superior's shoulders. "Comment ca va, mon ami?"  
  
(A/N: I don't speak a word of French. Shoot me if any of it is wrong.)  
  
Gillette shook the arm from his shoulders. "Not even you could ruin my good mood today, Moncrieff."  
  
"Oh..." Moncrieff pouted. "May I try to, at least?"  
  
"Leave me be, Moncrieff." The sneer was back, and Gillette turned to leave. "I'm in no mood for this."  
  
"You're looking simply lovely today, as always. Pretty girls falling down at your feet, eh?"  
  
Gillette tensed, clenching his fists, and turned slowly to face Moncrieff with an air of forced calm. "As if you would know anything about women, Moncrieff."  
  
Moncrieff's face split into a wide, predatorial grin. "Ah," he breathed. "The kitten has claws."  
  
"Kitten?" Gillette scowled, furious with both himself and Moncrieff. He knew better than to give the bastard ammunition, pretending he was interested. Moncrieff smirked.  
  
"Oui. Commodore Norrington's little marmalade kitten."   
  
Gillette clenched his fists hard, nails digging into the palms of his hands. "Leave, Moncrieff. Now. That's an order."  
  
Moncrieff did so, with a mocking bow, leaving Gillette to lean against the mast and ponder what on earth that had all been about.   
  
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Yay for Angsty!Bennett. Because Colin is so pretty when he's angsting. I want to go out and rent "Bridget Jones' Diary" right now, just for all the Colin angst. Ooh, or "Pride and Prejudice." Even better. Because that's WetLinenShirt!Colin angst. Mmm. Darcy-ness.  
  
Ave atque vale,  
  
--Jehan's Muse 


End file.
